


Take Me

by NoSanctuary



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Consent Issues, Daryl Has Issues, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Mental Coercion, Past Character Death, Sexual Content, Sexual Violence, Sorry Not Sorry, This Probably Won't Have a Happy Ending Either, mostly canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-02 14:00:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8670307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoSanctuary/pseuds/NoSanctuary
Summary: You always think you're in control until you're not.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My boyfriend and I are having some issues and I needed a break from 'Scars,' so y'all get this instead. I'm not totally sure where this came from besides this song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3EunsFNqw1E) "Home" by Daughter, but it's been bouncing around in my head for a while. First time writing a sexual situation so apologies. As usual, thanks for reading, comments/suggestions welcome!

Rosita found herself drifting slowly down the middle of one of Alexandria’s streets, the grey twilight giving way to the dimness that came with the arrival of darkness in the moments before the stars came out. Her boots moved over the ground at an even pace but she didn’t know where she was going—in an effort to dull the throbbing ache in her chest, she tried not to think at all, any moment at all in which she started to consider the situation resulting in an overwhelming storm of thoughts and voices and memories crashing against her mental walls.

 

“ _When I met you I thought you were the last girl on Earth—“_

 

She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply through her nose, and returned to the difficult task of not thinking. Her eyes had the slight shine of someone who’d recently been crying, but she’d splashed cold water on her face after she’d be able to choke down her sobs to reduce any other evidence.

 

_ “You're not.” _

 

Pale yellow light glowed warmly from windows of some of the houses she passed, but when she came to the house occupied by Rick, Carl, Michonne, Carol, and Daryl, she found her boots turning and carrying her up the stairs. This house was dark, its occupants likely seeking a good night’s rest before their raid on the Saviors’ compound tomorrow. She silently opened the door and entered, the only sound the quiet click of the door latch closing behind her. Dim moonlight faintly cast across the bare kitchen counters and island on her left, and outlined a sprawled figure on the sofa to her right in the living room she now stood before.

At first, she thought he was sleeping, but then she saw that the knuckle of his thumb was in his mouth and he was working it lightly with his teeth—something he did often when he was agitated, or thinking. Frequently, it was both at the same time.

As she stepped into the doorway, the floorboards creaked under her boots, and Daryl stiffened and sat bolt upright on the sofa, planting his feet squarely on the floor and turning his shoulders to face her. Once he recognized her, he relaxed, though his posture was still far from welcoming.

“Everyone’s asleep. Wasn’t expectin’ nobody,” he grumbled, and he glanced away to the living room window, then back at her when she didn’t move. He skeptically looked her up and down, his eyes pausing on her own, taking in the evidence she’d tried to hide—the wetness of her eyes, the way she’d locked her jaw to keep her lips from quivering. Still, his expression didn’t soften.

“What do you want?” he growled finally, though Rosita had heard him speak enough, quiet as he was, to ignore the callousness of the question.

“Nothing,” she said, and to her own belated surprise, she realized she was lying.

Daryl snorted and chewed at his lip, no longer looking at her. 

“Suit yourself,” he scoffed, and he swung his legs up again, laying back onto the sofa and bringing one arm up behind his head and his other hand to his mouth once more, facing away from her and closing the conversation.

Rosita only hesitated a moment, anger flaring in her chest at the night’s second cold dismissal by a man, though she knew he wasn’t the one she harbored the majority of it for.

She hadn’t been sure what intentions had brought her here, but as she lingered in the doorway, she mused over the enigma of the man before her. Though neither he nor anyone else had ever spoken of it to her, she knew he came from a rough background—that matter was obvious in the defensiveness with which he greeted the world. His mentality was that of a boxer—guard never down, fists always up. He made such an effort to be harsh and inhospitable to outsiders, and yet, she wasn’t sure she’d met anyone more loyal to those he loved. She’d seen the way he looked at Carol when they were reunited after Terminus, and how he’d broken apart with that girl in his arms outside Grady. She’d seen how he’d refused water and food on the road, before Alexandria, so that others would have more, and the attentive way he watched Rick when the Sheriff was working to a decision. She’d watched him wilt and fade in the days on the road, pulling in on himself, and away from everyone else. Since he’d started to work with Aaron, he appeared to have found at least some sort of purpose to direct himself towards and he’d stopped wasting away, but even as he continued to live with several members of his family, he’d maintained his distance from the group. 

Sometimes, Rosita suspected that in some way, he’d loved the girl—young woman—who’d died that day in that hospital, or perhaps that he loved that fierce, gray-haired woman who was masquerading as a homemaker, and was currently sleeping only a flight of stairs away, but that he lacked the courage to climb. At this thought, that in a world like this he might be throwing away love that was only steps away, dangling within reach if only he’d summon the guts climb over his self-imposed walls and do so, infuriated her.

Rosita quickly crossed to the middle of the room, the hard heels of her boots clacking in short clipped notes across the wooden floor until she stood in front of and over him. Forced to meet her gaze, his eyes narrowed, not so much to a glare as a wary squint. He stopped worrying his knuckles and for a moment, stared up at her foolishly with his fingers resting idly against his lips, before he saw something in her eyes that made him drop the hand to his side.

“Listen up _pendejo_ ,” she barked with an assertiveness she didn’t feel. “You don’t speak to me like that.”

Daryl’s lips parted slightly in surprise, and for a moment, he looked like he might actually be about to apologize. Rosita wasn’t Rick, or Carl, or Glenn, or Carol, and she wasn’t from the farm or from the prison, but she was still family, and these days, it wasn’t hard to make Daryl feel guilty. But then Rosita continued.

“You walk around here like you don’t feel anything,” she snapped, her voice a loud whisper, “But ever since Atlanta, you’ve been falling apart, and all of us can see it—”

Daryl was bolt upright in an instant, and if he’d looked uninviting before, now his expression was downright hostile. She could barely see his pupils through the slits his eyes had become.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” he snarled, jabbing a finger into her chest, just below where her collarbones met, and the meanness in the way he looked at her was the first time Rosita had seen the man he’d been, or had thought he was, back before this all started.

He opened his mouth to continue, but his rage had done something to her, reached out and licked its flames against her own, and she reached down and grabbed his chin roughly, feeling the stubble on his chin prickle against the thin leather of her fingerless gloves. It wasn’t her physical strength that held him prone, but her force of will, and as her lips crashed down against his, she felt his entire body become rigid. She braced for a shove that would send her tumbling back to the floor, but none came. Instead, Daryl stayed as still as if he’d been turned to stone, and when she pulled back he was looking at her as though his brain was struggling to process what had just happened, his mouth gaping open and jaw working.

Emboldened by the fact that he hadn’t actually forced her away, and the white hot anger and hurt that burned in her belly, she swung onto the couch, straddling him, and leaned back into him. This time, when their lips met, he responded. In all the days on the road and since, she’d never seen him _with_ anyone—in fact, she’d hardly seen him touch anyone at all—and at first she wondered if it was simply his body following instinct, after who knew how many months or even years of being alone. However, after a moment she felt his broad shoulders shift under her and both his hands moved into her hair, his fingers gently wrapping themselves into the chocolate brown strands. Her heart, so freshly wounded, screamed at the gentle touch, but she pushed onward. The rough pads of his fingers, brushing over her skin, caused her body to hum, and soon silenced all other protests. 

Where the touches of his hands and his mouth were still hesitant, hers were hungry. She ran her fingers along his open collar, then down over the outside of his button-down, skimming over his chest down to his lower belly, and she felt a leap of surprise in her chest as his hips bucked eagerly against hers, his cock half-hard between them. It wasn’t until he was moving under her, sitting up into her while continuing to hold her close to himself, her hands feeling the muscles ripple in his arms, that she was struck by how strong he was, and this realization only fanned the heat growing in her belly. Both of them were breathless, panting in between each kiss, and the more their lips met, the more she realized that he was as starving for contact as she was, if not more. His tongue brushed against her lips and pushed them apart, eagerly exploring her mouth, and she gave way to his demands. When one hand began to unbutton her shirt however, she shoved it down and mumbled, “stop,” against his lips, but her admonition hardly slowed him down.

Though his physical power over her was still intoxicating, she was also suddenly aware that she was losing the upper hand of the situation, and given how everything with Abraham had spun wildly out of her control, she wasn’t willing to ceed her authority here. As one of his hands closed roughly around her wrist that has previously pushed at him, the other sliding up under her shirt to cup her right breast, before the fingers gripped both the fabric of her bra and the skin of her back in an effort to pull her closer to him, she removed her own hand from the back of his neck and struck him across the face with all the force she could muster.

He looked so stunned when his eyes opened, both his hands having slid down to rest loosely at her sides, that she felt a brief surge of guilt. That wounded look he gave her, the honest, unfiltered expression of betrayal, so seemingly excessive given that the blow had come from someone who may have been family but was also someone he hardly knew, despite their current physical closeness—confirmed the things she’d suspected about his past, as much as the edges of scars she'd glimpsed in days past under his vest where the skin of his back met his shoulders. Part of her wanted to fall apart at this realization, but another part, something cold and calculating that had reared its ugly head when Abraham had said those equally ugly words—“ _I thought you were the last woman on earth. You’re not”_ —filed this information away for later; as a tool she could use to maintain control, and as aweapon she could use to protect herself.

As she brought her hands gently back to cup his face, he flinched in the moment before they made contact, then visibly relaxed into her touch. She forced herself to look straight into his eyes, and found their usual roles reversed—he was looking at her with such openness, so much vulnerability, that it almost hurt, and it was her turn to hold her face as impassive as a stone wall, her eyes steely and cold.

When she leaned in to kiss him again, his lips moved in response to her once more, but his motions were slow and responsive, letting her guide the way. Each time she paused to catch her breath, he did as well, and he made no motion to press on until she did. This time, it was her tongue that parted his lips and while his met hers, he was malleable, rather than demanding. As she shifted her weight, she felt him harden fully under her, his cock straining against his jeans. As she ran her fingers over the outside of his pants along his length, he let out something close to a whimper, and when she finally popped the button and slid the zipper, freeing him, he sighed in relief. Never taking her eyes from his face, she carefully undid each button of her shirt, dropping it to the floor, before reaching behind herself to unclasp her bra, each movement slow and deliberate. As it too dropped away, she paused and gave him a moment to take her in, her breasts bare and nipples hardening in the cool night air, as she composed herself. Steadied, she leaned down and took him in both hands, working up and down his shaft gently, feeling a thrill as his breaths became more shallow and rapid and he gripped at her waist.

After a few minutes, she released him, watching him wince as her warm hands were replaced by the chilly air, the raw disappointment visible on his face as she climbed off of him and stood. She didn’t allow herself to grin at this, her face instead remaining unreadable, though she felt a distant sort of satisfaction. He didn’t have long to feel sorry for himself though as she kicked off her boots and shimmied out of her pants. Completely naked now, she soaked in the way he was looking at her, his eyes traveling longingly from her face down over her breasts, her slender waist, along her thighs, taking in every detail as they made their way down to the floor, setting her skin on fire everywhere they went, before they slowly climbed back to her face.

She crossed the few steps back to the couch and straddled him once again, sliding down onto him in one swift motion, and though she was wet with anticipation she wasn’t fully prepared, and she both winced at and savored the pain as she took him into herself fully. Daryl himself gasped at the sudden sensation, followed by the slightest, softest little noises that plucked at her heart as she began to rock against him—his sounds as much pleasure at the sheer goodness of the feeling as pain at the intimacy. Soon, he was unable to hold back and he was thrusting to meet her, and each pound of him inside of her brought her higher, and she was crying out with each plunge now too, though not loudly.

He forgot her lesson from not long before and though he didn’t pull her to him again, his fingers were twisting against the skin of her hips, her ribs, leaving a trail of bruises, even as she tangled her own hands into his long hair and pulled them tight. She was so close, so very close, but then she saw it in his face, that he was going, and even as he tried to pull away, to pull out of her, she gripped him tightly with her thighs and didn’t let him go.

He came inside of her and she felt it, hot spurts against her walls, and now he was whimpering, his hands falling limply to his sides, and she thought briefly of the old adage, _if you want something done, you’ve got to do it yourself_ , and she reached down, palming her clit hard several times until she tipped over the edge, release spreading from her belly down into the tips of her fingers and toes, shudders wracking her whole body. His cock had been growing rapidly limp inside her, and with an intentional cruelty she held him to her as she convulsed around him, and the over-stimulation, when he was already so sensitive, caused a low and animal whine to come from his throat. As he slid out, she felt his hot cum run down her inner thighs, dripping onto his belly.

As she rose onto her knees, she glanced at him and was caught off-guard by the sheer ravenousness she saw staring back at her, and she was struck with the thought that rather than having extinguished it, she'd set a fire. She shook her head, pushing off of him and turning away to pull her clothes back on, ignoring the semen that stuck to the inside of her pants as she avoided facing him again. She heard a zipper behind her, but otherwise, he hadn’t moved. As she turned to go, she intended to leave without a word, without even looking at him, but he spoke, his voice low and gravelly, and he knocked her off-balance with one word.

“Rosita.”

Before she strode out of the room and out of the house, she found herself, unwillingly, turning to face him again and when she did, she accidentally met his gaze, and for moment she couldn’t break away. His eyes were black and glittering in the dark, and there something in them that was infinitely more terrifying than love.


	2. Chapter 2

In the empty hallway, Rosita found herself crashing down against the table, knocking the small collection of trinkets aside, and bringing her hands to her face, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes to stop the tears from falling. She choked back a sob, the image of the arrow erupting from Denise’s eye as she spoke playing through her head yet again, and then she swallowed another one, tried to make it stop.

She’d come looking for him, she wasn’t sure why--but he wasn’t home, and now she needed to get out of here before someone else found her. She turned towards the door but even as she did so, the sound of boots on the steps told her she was too late and sent her heart racing. A shadowy figure came into view on the other side of the door, and though his large form was blurry through the glass, she recognized the figure as Daryl immediately. This realization didn't stop the alarmed thudding in her chest as much as she'd expected. As the shape hesitated for a moment, Rosita wondered if he could see her there in the dimness of the house, before with a soft click, the door swung open.

Daryl’s shoulders were slack at his sides and he was hanging his head and she could just about see the weight of everything on his shoulders, crushing him. Her eyes dropped to his hands, dirty and dusty, soil under his fingernails from the fresh grave he’d dug. Staring at his hands, she felt a surge of guilt that she hadn’t been able to find it in herself to help him, before her gaze returned to his face. The raw, overwhelming pain there was the only part of his expression that she could clearly read as he stared at her through a greasy fringe of dark hair.

She’d seen that look before, in the days on the road after Grady. Like the rage and the guilt at everything he couldn’t do, everyone he couldn’t save, was a black pit rising up to swallow him how, a monster that was growing inside of him and eating him alive, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

He crossed the threshold, his eyes never leaving hers, and then with a start she realized the other, wholly different thing she was seeing in him--need. Something bald and keening, an all-consuming drive, pounding in his heart and through his veins, for anything that could make this just a little bit better, anything that could make him just be okay—anything that could just make it _stop_. Even if it was only for a day, an hour, a minute.

She shook her head at him, her brain half-heartedly protesting that now was not the time, even as her body, drawn to him, refused to budge another step. Still, she brought her hands up between them, palms facing outward, and when he closed the distance between them in two steps and his chest bumped against them, he stopped. He _listened_.

His face however moved within inches of hers and when she mustered the courage to look into it, his eyes weren’t on her own but cast down on her lips. Her stomach knotted when she smelled the whisky on his breath, even as he looked at her with all the gentleness in the world. His nose brushed hers, tentatively, and when she turned her head to the right in a miserable attempt to reject his advance—to push away the possibility of the comfort, or even the pleasure, she felt undeserving of—he shifted slightly that way as well. Placing himself directly in front of her once more, he repeated the barest contact, and she realized the slight touches were intentional. As someone so starved for physical contact that he appeared to then sometimes find it painful when it occurred, he understand the deflection she was attempting, and he was trying to coax her to stop.

The heartbreak written so clearly all over him even as he was trying gnawed at her and she bit her lip to fight down another gasping sob, and had to close her eyes to block the image out. Instead through, she saw Denise again, her heard the newfound confidence in her voice; _“I wanted you here because you’re alone, probably for the first time in your life.”_

She felt Daryl’s forehead come to rest against hers now, and then a heavy breath that could have been driven by either heady desire or pain bubbling out from the lid he held it under. _“And because you’re stronger than you think you are,” t_ he dead woman’s voice continued, and now Daryl’s nose was pressing into her cheek, his hot breath falling on her neck and sending shivers down her spine. _”Which gives me hope,”_  Rosita heard the voice say, _“that maybe I can be too—“_ and then the words were drowned out as Daryl's mouth pressed over hers and she felt that same heat from before flaring in her belly, and she kissed him back, hard.

Daryl's tongue knocked against her lips, demanding entry, and she let him in without a second thought about the person she was opening the doors for. He kissed like a man dying of thirst, drinking her in and not letting go until he finally had to come up for air, but even then the break was brief. His hands ran over her body with a confidence so unlike any other interaction she’d seen him have with another human being, that the contrast in his demeanor was almost enough to make her stop and step back, take a second look at him, check if man in the hallway was who she actually thought--but it was too late.

His breathing was heavy again and there was no mistaking the reasons why this time, and as he pulled at her clothes, she returned the favor. Her fingers began to work the buttons of his shirt, until he grabbed her hands with a roughness that broke her trance, shoving them down and murmuring a sharp “no” against her lips. She stiffened even as he moved to plant a trail of kisses along her, down her neck, sending sparks dancing across her skin.

Anger had flared in her at his demeanor, his single word a command rather than a request, and she defiantly grasped at the front of his shirt once more, popping several more buttons loose.

“No,” he growled more loudly, and this time he grasped both her wrists with enough pressure to bruise them. This time, he didn't release them, instead holding them away from himself even as his free hand tangled in her hair and drew her closer, and his lips found hers again. She tried to shove at him and his grip didn’t loosen, but rather than inspiring fear, Rosita felt furious. She bit down on his lip, hard, and felt the taste of copper in his mouth as he released her hands and pulled back to look at her.

A smear of red had been brought to the corner of his mouth and she had to tear her eyes away as he licked his lips. As her gaze rose to meet his, she didn’t see what she’d expected; not surprise, not even anger. Instead, staring intently back at her, dark and hooded, she saw the same thing in his look as before--that he _wanted_ her. His tongue darted out again to the side of his lips, cleaning off the blood that was quickly replaced by another small trickle where she’d broke his skin. She backed up several steps, opening a space between them, eyeing the late gray afternoon light coming from the front windows and the door. Daryl saw the direction she was looking and read her like a book without responding, not moving forward to follow her even as his body made it clear he wanted to.

After a moment, she made to leave, and he stepped to the right, placing his body between her and the door, and she felt a flare of alarm even as he made no attempt to touch her, his head dropped in a placating fashion even as he tried to look into her face.

Rosita moved to the left to try to pass him then, inadvertently closing the distance between them. Only a second behind, he moved left as well, and she felt a surge of both fear and heat at the realization that he wasn’t going to let her leave. She’d bumped right up against him then, and as she stared up into his face she saw it, that same look he’d had when she’d walked out of the house all those the weeks before. Cornered and beginning to tremble with either desire or fear, she didn't know which--maybe some bizarre combination of the both that made the two emotions indistinguishable from one another--she was overwhelmed by the realization that she didn't know the man standing there in the hallway with her at all. If, indeed, it was a man at all. She couldn't resist a nagging dread that there'd been something else, something locked away in the deep dark, and she'd gone and foolishly let it out. Now, it was lurking just out of sight at any moment, ever-crawling just under his skin, and there was nothing either of them could do to put it back. Still, she let it kiss her, and it was surprisingly good at it.

His hand moved to her throat, squeezing slightly, and at the constriction she gasped and then dove back into him for more. His other hand gripped her waist and walked her backwards into the kitchen, and her resistance was now nothing but a show, because the more she pushed back, the more she saw this other person. The more he took control.

Both of them were either oblivious or uncaring to the fact that at any moment another member of the house could walk in, his rough fingers undoing the buttons on her shorts and skimming over her mound, to circle briefly against her nub, and she moaned loudly into his mouth. As her shorts dropped to the floor she kicked them off, and he lifted her onto the table, and even as he paused to tilt his head back and take her in, she saw it written over him, this sheer, immeasurable grief. As he leaned back in, sucking at her neck, her hands skimmed across his shoulders and down his bare arms, and she could feel it too, this misery radiating off of his skin, and even as he rubbed her gently through her underwear and she gasped at the pleasurable sensation, it broke her heart.

And she didn’t want that, more sadness, but it was all she could see when she looked at him, as he moved tenderly from her throat to her collarbone and then back to her face, and she shoved at his chest, intending to change that. He inhaled sharply, surprised, even as he leaned against her hands, resisting. She pushed at him again, and he took her hands in both of his, and lowered them to her lap, pulling her closer to him, and she could feel him through his jeans, hard, and involuntarily she ground herself against him. His hands ran up her back, before he brought one down, slipping two fingers inside her underwear and teasing them along her lips. She sighed, twisting her hips encouragingly closer, and feeling his fingers play around her entrance before they finally plunged in and she clenched needily around him.

But she couldn’t give up now, not when she’d gotten so close, and she summoned all of her will to shove him square in the chest a third and final time, the heels of her hands thumping heavily against him, and finally, her efforts were rewarded.

His hand dropped back to his side and she felt her body cry out at the loss, but she was occupied by the way he was staring back at her now, almost unrecognizable.

He grabbed her arms, pulling her down to the floor once more with a thump, and she fought back by tensing, pulling away, if only to feel him overpower her as he swung her around. He let go of her wrists in time for her to catch herself as he bent her over the table and yanked her underwear down. She heard the slide of his zipper, his breathing ragged as he kneaded her bare upturned ass with his hands, before he using them to lift her slightly and spread her lips wide, shoving himself fully inside of her in one forceful motion, and Rosita gasped at the suddenness of it.

He thrust against her slowly, pinning her down, her breasts pressed painfully flat to the table as he leaned over her to kiss the back of her neck and her shoulders, and she groaned, and arched into him. One fist tangled in her hair, bending her neck and pulling her head back, and his teeth grazed her ear, and her jaw, and she knew he could feel her pulse thundering under her skin. For a moment she saw it, just as a flash--his mouth coming down on her exposed neck, all gnashing teeth and growls, biting into her flesh, taking her skin and tendons and arteries in his teeth and tearing her throat out.

Instead, all she felt was the firm pressure of his lips. He straightened and she was able to raise herself off the table onto her forearms, the ache in her breasts remaining even as the immediate pressure was relieved, but the relief was momentary before he began to thrust against her more rapidly. The force of him drove her hips and legs into the hard edge of the table, and she felt the bruising blooming even as he continued to fuck her, and she savored the pain, that even when this felt so good it hurt too, the same as just about everything these days.

He slowed his pace, sliding out until only the tip of him remained inside her, then plunging back in, and she savored feeling of the entirety of the length of him passing in and out of her as he continued this motion. No sooner then had she begun to miss the roughness, the spectacle of his raw need on full display, than he picked up the speed again, the table rocking loudly with the force of each thrust, the slapping of his skin wetly against hers almost echoing over the kitchen tile, and she cried out loudly with each thrust. The pressure was building painfully in her, as she couldn’t reach down to relieve it, and she hoped to God there was no one else home in this house, and she hoped that maybe there was, and someone would find them, and stop them, stop _this_.

He began to come inside of her, slipping out as second and third spurts of the ropey fluid splashed onto her butt and thighs, and she could feel him shudder against her as he released. Her clit throbbed needily, unrelieved, and she savored the sharp ache between her legs, and she didn't give herself the pleasure of finishing it, instead resolving to let it slowly fade.

When she turned back to him, he’d already shoved himself back into his pants, and he was staring at the floor. She didn't see the stranger anymore, the creature, whatever it was, was gone or had never been there at all, leaving only her and Daryl alone in the kitchen--and he couldn’t look at her. She drew her shorts up.

_“It makes me sick that you guys aren’t even trying, because you’re strong, and you’re smart—“_

She raised a hand, intending to rest it gently on his cheek, to comfort both of them, but he drew sharply back as if expecting a slap, though when no blow fell, his expression quickly turned to one of shame. He worried at his lower lip, and she stepped into his space again, reaching up slowly and within his field of vision, and this time, he allowed it. As she took his face in her hands, he finally lifted his eyes to hers, and she saw that they were damp.

_“And you’re both really good people, and if you don’t wake—up—and face your—“_

“It’s okay, Daryl,” she began. In some messed up way, she needed this as well, and she didn’t want him to run away, to avoid her for weeks as he had done after the last time, until they’d been forced together today on the fatal run with Denise. “It’s okay—“

But he was pulling away from her, stepping backwards in an almost panicked retreat, and then he was in the hallway and out the front door without looking back, and Rosita felt yet another wave of guilt that she’d driven him from his own house, and she also felt pity for herself that she’d found herself in the same situation as when she’d come here--alone. One thing had changed at least, this feeling that was coursing through and crashing over her now as she slumped against the counter—it was pain, but at least it was a different kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for some clarification, I don't think Daryl would ever do this. I like Norman's assessment that he'd pretty much be loyal forever, if he gets with someone. But hey, that's what fan-fiction is for, right? I just got this idea in my head because Daryl's coping mechanisms seem to consist of hurting himself (mostly mentally) and so I wondered with the downward spiral his character has been experiencing, what would happen if we went down this dark rabbit-hole of pairing him with someone else who was suffering too.


End file.
